


The Adventure Of The Three Gables (1903)

by Cerdic519



Series: Elementary 221B [215]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Edwardian, Butt Plugs, Cock Rings, Destiel - Freeform, F/M, Gay Sex, Inheritance, Johnlock - Freeform, Lonely Sherlock, M/M, Pining Sherlock, Trains
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-23
Updated: 2017-08-23
Packaged: 2018-12-19 00:55:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11886513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: It was perhaps typical that, in the few days that they were apart before their retirement, Sherlock had to take a case without his ever-present scribe. But absence definitely made the heart grow desperate.





	The Adventure Of The Three Gables (1903)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [supersockie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/supersockie/gifts).



_[Begin narration by Mr. Sherlock Holmes]_

Something had changed. John and I were still happy together in Baker Street, but I felt that somehow, we were mentally beginning to move to that wonderful cottage on the downs, and that 221B was no longer really our home, or at least not our only one. But I had John, and that was all that really mattered. Apart from those two terrible three-year periods when he and I were parted – six painfully empty years that it pains me I can never have back or make amends for – not a case went by that he did not accompany me. I know how much it hurt him, despite the many times he denied it, when people commented that he was there solely as my biographer, bringing my small successes to the wider public. Even if we were parted for but a few hours, I could feel myself aching at his absence, knowing that something fundamental in my life was not there. 

I had thought that I would see out that final year with his having assisted me on every case except during those painful hiatuses (hiati?), but in December of that last full year in Baker Street, events transpired to cause me to undertake a case whilst parted from him. And I really, really hated it! Coming back to our rooms every day knowing they would be cold and empty without the man I loved, made the dark December days seem ever darker. But a promise is a promise, and I am a man of my word.

Mostly.

+~+~+

I had been undertaking a moderately interesting case concerning a middle-ranking political figure on behalf of Bacchus that autumn, which had been dragging on since late September. This was now becoming annoying, as John and I had been invited to York for the festive season, his brother Samuel having just moved his family there there on his securing a junior partnership at his legal firm. John was, I knew, greatly looking forward to spending Christmas with his (other) family, but as our departure date approached, the case dragged irritatingly on. 

I could see how torn he was. Part of him wanted to see his brother and especially his fast-growing children, but part did not want to be separated from me. When it became clear that I would have to remain ‘on call’ for much of the month, I snapped and had a blazing row with Bacchus, during which much was said that should not have been said. He accused me of putting my own interests first, and I reminded him of the many times I had helped him out at my own expense, and often at danger to my own person. It ended with me forcibly removing him from Baker Street and telling him not to show his face there ever again, no matter what. I do not think that I have ever been so angry with him!

Of course my beloved John, who had little enough reason to like my brother, played the peacemaker, and with the help of my dear sister effected at least a temporary reconciliation. I grudgingly agreed that I would stay in London until the twenty-first, but not a day longer, and if the case dragged on beyond that date, it could be someone else’s problem. I knew that John had wanted to spend at least two weeks before the holy day in the North, so I pressed him to go ahead as planned, assuring him several times over that nothing would keep me from the night sleeper on the twenty-first, getting me into York full three days before Christmas. We had a sorrowful parting on the twelfth, and I returned to a cold and empty Baker Street, knowing that it would be ten long days before I would see him again.

That night, in my cold, lonely and empty bed, I cried.

+~+~+

It was perhaps typical that a solitary case arose during that brief time, when I did not have my faithful friend and scribe with me. I would not have let myself get involved, had not the man requesting my aid come to Baker Street expecting to see John. His name was Mr. Stuart Ireland, and he was a lawyer hailing originally from Rothbury in Northumberland, with whom John had struck up a friendship during his brief visit to Bargate, the college where I had met him rather too many years ago. Mr. Ireland had also worked with John's brother Samuel on some cases, so the reedy blond fellow had a double claim on my time.

“This is really most vexing”, the lawyer said, taking off and polishing his wire-rimmed spectacles. “I had so hoped that John would help me enlist your aid, although I should have remembered that he does sometimes spend Christmas with his brother in the North. I suppose that I really should have telegraphed first.”

“I should have been with him”, I said, “but I am delayed here for a rather important case, though it will definitely be concluded by next Monday. I am merely awaiting news now, so I have some little time free. Is it anything I could help you?”

He looked at me uncertainly.

“I do not know if five days will be enough”, he said. “It is all rather bizarre, almost preternatural, though I myself fear that rather more earthly forces are behind it all.”

“Pray tell me about it”, I urged. After all, this was John’s friend. I owed it to him to do what I could. 

He took a moment to assemble his thoughts before beginning.

“I moved to London some years back”, he began, “and am now full partner in a successful practice up in Camden Town. This concerns a client of mine, an elderly gentleman by the name of Mr. Percy Gable. He owns a considerable estate in Golders Green, which is an important part of my story as it is in an area being scheduled for development. You may have read that there was a fuss over the extension of the underground railway through Hampstead Heath, which has only just been resolved; because of that, there will shortly be a station there, which will increase the value of Mr. Gable's property still further. I understand that he has been offered and has rejected several large sums for his house.”

“Mr. Gable had married and had had two sons, Achilles and Hercules. One can only presume that either he or the late Mrs. Gable were Greek scholars.”

I smiled at that, remembering our recent trip to Derbyshire and the truly dreadful 'Greek Chorus'.

“Mr. Gable is now seventy-two, and in poor health”, the lawyer continued. “I should add that his sons were born ten years apart. Of their siblings, only one sister, Helen, survived. She married a bonds trader called Mr. Edmund Cooper, but they both died in a train crash some years ago, although they left a young son, Lorrimer. Mr. Gable does not think much of him, but at least the boy had the sense to agree to change his surname to Gable – well, he has promised to when he is twenty-one - so he will doubtless inherit something. 

“Back to Mr. Achilles who was, I believe the saying is, ‘the apple of his father's eye’. He was charismatic, outgoing, and popular with all who knew him. He even took part in competitive athletic events when younger. It came as a great tragedy when he caught a particularly virulent strain of influenza whilst visiting with a friend in France, and died this past January. His father was naturally heart-broken.”

“This meant, of course, that the entire estate devolved upon Mr. Hercules.” The lawyer polished his glasses again, and made a disapproving cough. “I do not wish to speak ill of any person, but he is rather an unsavoury character. He married poorly, a rich lady of questionable character, and they have their own house in Edgeware. They have three daughters, which I privately think my client considers a disappointment, though he has never said as much. Also, Mr. Hercules rarely if ever visited his father – that was, until Mrs. Ophelia Bollinger appeared on the scene.”

“Who is this Mrs. Bollinger?” I asked.

“She _claims_ to be a medium, and sent a letter to Mr. Gable that his late son was attempting to communicate via the spirit world”, the lawyer said. “Utter hogwash in my humble opinion, but Mr. Gable is unfortunately prone to believe such things, and he seemed to take comfort from this. Had it stopped there, all might have been well, but of course it did not.”

“Has the lady asked for money?” I asked.

“I rather think that she is too clever for that”, the lawyer said. “I spoke with Mr. Gable some time ago, and he said he had offered her a sum of money merely for expenses, which the lady had refused. But that was before the events of last week.”

“Go on”, I said.

“Mr. Hercules is, as I have said, not the wisest of men”, the lawyer said. “He made the error of telling his father that all this ‘psychic malarkey’, as he called it, was utter tripe, and that his brother was as dead as a door-nail. His father did not take it well, and responded by cutting off all communication with him.”

“Not tactful, but understandable”, I said. He nodded.

“I come now to the strange part”, he said. “On the same day that Mr. Hercules confronted his father, Mrs. Bollinger sent him a message requesting an urgent meeting, at which she warned him that his younger son was trying to prevent their communicating, and pleading with him to ignore the fellow - the strange part being that the telegram that Mrs. Bollinger sent was, of course, timed – to half an hour _before_ Mr. Hercules arrived at the house!”

I thought on that for a moment.

“It is about four miles from Edgeware to Golders Green”, I said. So the telegram must have been sent whilst he was making his journey. Has anything else of note occurred?”

“Yes”, he said, frowning, “and it is most worrisome. I administer Mr. Gable’s estate for him jointly with Captain Wulfram, the son of his old army friend. A most reliable man, I should say; he quit the army after suffering an eye injury, and works in a bank over in Finsbury Park. He came to me last week, exceedingly worried. Mr. Gable has asked him about selling off his shares and other investments, in order to buy jewellery. I am afraid that he means to present Mrs. Bollinger with some or all of it for her ‘efforts’. And today…..”

He paused, and gave a delicate shudder.

“Today Mr. Gable said that after Christmas, he intends to rewrite his will”, he said. “I very much fear the worst.”

“I see”, I said. “Well, since you are John’s friend, I will do what I can with the case in my remaining few days in the capital. But do not hope for miracles, sir.”

He smiled.

“The way John writes of you”, he said, “I rather do.”

I blushed.

+~+~+

The obvious next thing to do was to go to the house of Mr. Hercules Gable, and see if my hypothesis was correct. His impressively large house was called "Maryvale", I presumed after his wife who I knew had been born Miss Mary de Vale. I knew that he lived there with their two younger daughters, one still at school and the other one engaged to be married to a local bank manager. The eldest, Mr. Ireland had told me, was away and training to be a doctor in London, much to the disapproval of both her father and grandfather.

I have to say that neither Mr. or Mrs. Gable impressed me much. She was built like a battleship, and clearly regarded my presence as an intrusion into her realm. He had singularly failed to match his heroic namesake in almost every department except possibly, his waist size, and seemed to have reasoned that he could make up for his lack of inches by dousing himself in cologne. I wondered idly if he might go up in flames if he stood too near the fire. One small push.....

“I am investigating a lady who is – I am sure I can trust your discretion on this matter, sir, madam – on the run”, I said gravely. “I should state most definitively that she has not herself committed any crime, but certain people have, through a most calamitous alignment of the Fates, come to believe she may have witnessed something quite serious, and they wish her to be, in their words, eliminated. It is highly unlikely that she would have come to your house, of course, but we are sure that she came to this area. I have a description of the lady, and would be grateful if you could tell me whether you have hired any new employees in the past twelve months?”

Mrs. Gable narrowed her eyes at me suspiciously (probably because I looked untidier than usual, the day having been exceptionally windy), but her husband seemed to be accepting of my story.

“Only the one”, he said. “A new housemaid, Lily, started last Christmas.”

“May I have a physical description, please?” I asked. “For obvious reasons, I would not wish to startle the lady, or indeed upset your household, without good cause.”

“She is about twenty, plain and thin”, Mrs. Gable said. “Blonde hair and does not wash her hands often enough, but I suppose one has to take what one can get in this day and age. One hopes that she will improve with time.”

It sounded right.

“That is _definitely_ not the lady I am looking for”, I said firmly. “Not unless she has somehow lost twenty years and several stones in weight!”

I looked up as I spoke, and noticed for the first time a small photograph of two men standing very stiff. One of them was clearly Mr. Hercules Gable, whilst the other was a young man of about sixteen years of age.

“Your son?” I asked, gesturing to the picture. He shook his head.

“No, my nephew”, he said. “My sister's boy, Laurie. She and her husband died in a train crash, and left me in charge of his upbringing, at least until he is twenty-one.”

“He looks a fine young fellow”, I offered.

“He is her son all right”, Mr. Gable said stiffly. “Thinks he knows it all!”

Pot, kettle....

“Well, I must be on my way”, I said. “Thank you for your time today, sir, madam. It seems that I must continue my inquiries elsewhere. Good day.”

+~+~+

The town of Edgeware was, fortunately, quite small, and had only one ladies’ outfitters. The lady sales assistant seemed at first mortified that a _gentleman_ would want to know about such things, even if he was a consulting detective.

“Well, we do keep such things, sir”, she admitted, looking over her shoulder as if she feared the police were about to raid her premises for such a grievous offence. “But the demand for them is quite low. Indeed, we have only sold one to my knowledge in all the years that I have been here. And I keep the shop register, so I would know.”

“May I inquire as to whom that was sold to?” I asked.

The lady nodded, and pulled up her sales register.

“Let me see”, she said. “Oh yes, of course, that is why I remember it. It was a young man and a young lady, buying things for their theatre group. He said that it would enable a small lady to play the part of a large one. A very nice young man, if I remember.”

She turned the register towards me, and I read the name. ‘Mr. John Smith’.

I was not surprised. At least, not at that.

+~+~+

I had visited Edgeware on the Thursday, so on Friday I decided to play a hunch and make a call on the young Mr. Lorrimer Cooper, who had an establishment in nearby Stanmore. If I was correct in what I thought was behind all this, then there was one way that I could be sure. 

Mr. Lorrimer Cooper was pleased to see me, though I soon came to wonder whether this had anything to do with my arrival necessitating his removal from his Latin lessons with his tutor. He was a pleasant enough young man, although he was unfortunately passing through that phase so many teenage boys experience when they think that a moustache makes them look older and more serious, and not like a caterpillar had crawled across their upper lip and then died.

“I would like to ask you about a certain lady called Mrs. Bollinger”, I said. “I understand that she is visiting your grandfather and claiming to pass on messages from your late father.”

The boy’s face darkened.

“That is no lady!” he snorted. “She has grandpapa wrapped around her little finger. I would do anything to expose her for the liar that she really is.”

“Would you?” I asked. “Then perhaps I may be of service to you, sir.”

He looked at me in surprise.

“How?” he asked. 

“I have come across Mrs. Bollinger in the course of my inquiries into another case, in Walthamstow”, I said. “In that case, an elderly gentleman rewrote his will in her favour despite her rather weak protestations against such a move, and she received a large sum of money as a result. I had an inquiry in this neighbourhood for another case, and I thought I would do you the courtesy of informing you that I shall speak to your grandfather at the first opportunity.”

“Of course”, he said. “It is important that he knows at once. Thank you for coming to tell me.”

I looked around the room. 

“This all seems quite pleasant”, I observed. He nodded. “Your grandfather treats you well?”

“Grandpapa sort of said that I had to be Gable rather than a Cooper when I come of age, if I wanted to ever inherit anything”, he said. “I disagree with my uncle on most things, but we are united in stopping That Woman from taking advantage of an old man!”

“I promise that I will call on him some time tomorrow morning”, I said. “Not too early; that would be discourteous. Most probably around eleven.”

He thanked me again for calling, and I left. It was almost lunch-time, so I adjourned to the nearby town for a surprisingly pleasant meal in a local restaurant, before calling in at the local post office. The postmaster was surprised at my request, but acquiesced when he knew who I was. The paper I wrote out was copied, and then signed by myself, himself and one of his clerks. I left him a copy before leaving to catch a cab back to a horribly empty Baker Street.

I hated it! 

+~+~+

The following day I set off for Golders Green, being careful to time my arrival to just after eleven. I did not expect my reception to be warm – at least, not at first – but I hoped that my target would hear me out. It was most definitely in his interests.

Mr. Percy Gable knew my name, of course, but when I stated that I had met Mr. Ireland, his face darkened.

“Ireland has no business sticking his nose into what does not concern him”, he said angrily. “He is my lawyer, and nothing else.”

“That is unfair, sir”, I said firmly. “He is a good friend to you. If he had not besought himself to approach me for aid, you might well have been duped.”

“I suppose you think that my dear Mrs. Bollinger is a charlatan, too”, he said with a smirk. “Well, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, what would you say if I told you that she was here this morning, and had told me you were coming?”

He was clearly confident that he had me there. I smiled knowingly.

“I would say, sir, that _my_ prophesying powers exceeded her own”, I said, perhaps a trifle too smugly. 

I took out the paper I had written the day before, and laid it out on the table before him.

“This”, I said, “is my own set of predictions, made yesterday. You will see that I foretold Mrs. Bollinger would indeed arrive before me this morning, and would warn you not to listen to what I had to say. This was signed and witnessed by both the Stanmore postmaster and his clerk, and you will see that he did me the courtesy of including both the time and yesterday's date, with an official Post Office stamp. I do not think I need to tell you, sir, that those are not handed out lightly.”

He looked at me in astonishment.

“How could you know that?” he demanded.

“I used my abilities, such as they are, rather than any psychic powers”, I said. “I began by looking for motive, because criminals are, mercifully, not usually prone to do things without reason. The arrival of Mrs. Bollinger upset four people; your son, grandson, and the two people administering your estate. I decided that your blood had more to gain, so I focussed on them.”

“My son would never do anything like that!” the old man said hotly.

“It was your son who appeared to have the most to lose”, I went on. “His house is full of expensive items, and even allowing for his wife’s wealth, he strikes me as the sort of person who would spend more than whatever his current income is. But then there was the curious case of Mrs. Bollinger anticipating your son’s protest against her.”

“She is psychic”, Mr. Gable said firmly. “What is so surprising about that?”

“That is odd”, I said, “because when the police came to arrest her this morning, her psychic powers had apparently failed her. A pity, as it means that she is now behind bars.”

He stared at me in surprise.

“But why should they arrest her?” he demanded.

“For her part in an attempt to extort money from you”, I said. “She was one half of a highly professional scheme which, had it succeeded, would have greatly benefited her partner in crime.”

“I suppose you mean Hercules”, he said, sounding doubtful.

“No”, I said. ”Your grandson, Lorrimer.”

He stared at me as if I were mad. 

“He is only a boy!” he said at last.

“I am sorry, to say, a criminal mastermind in the making”, I said firmly. “He planned this from the moment that his parents died. It seemed that both his uncle and cousins stood between him and a massive inheritance – but he new that you would prefer to leave your money to a male heir, and also of your interest in the preternatural, which he decided to play on.”

He stared at me in shocked silence.

“The main problem, of course, would be his uncle, who had the administering of his own estates and whom he did not like at all. He managed to employ the services of an actress, one Miss Lily Baker. She obtained a post working for his uncle as a maid, by the simple expedient of paying one of his existing staff to leave without notice. Her presence 'in the enemy camp' would play an important role in the deception that was to come.”

“Next, Mr. Lorrimer took up an interest in the local theatrical society, and was able to fund the purchase of several items for the group. In particular, he secured a false front, which ladies wear to give themselves the impression of a larger bust, for reasons best known to themselves. This was important, as it would play a pivotal role in the transformation of a scrawny blonde housemaid called Miss Lily Baker into a strongly-built dark-haired older woman called Mrs. Ophelia Bollinger. He was careful there too; there is a real Mrs. Ophelia Bollinger who is indeed a psychic and lives in Essex.”

“I do not believe it!” Mr. Gable protested. But his words lacked conviction.

“The maid's position came into play once his uncle felt threatened enough to confront his father about the lady”, I went on. “Mr. Lorrimer knew such a thing would happen eventually; indeed, I am sure that he encouraged his uncle to do it. Mr. Hercules determined to go to the house and 'put his father to rights'. Of course the maid was waiting for just such a development, and as per the plan showed her character's 'psychic powers', thus reinforcing her credentials. She was also careful to not ask for any money up to that point, because after the major rupture between you and your son, you would most likely insist on such a move just to spite him.”

The man before me lowered his head.

“I am sorry for all this”, I said soothingly, “but it is important that you know the truth. It was your extreme good fortune that your lawyer is a good friend to my colleague Doctor Watson, which was how I became involved in the case. I very much fear for your grandson’s future if he carries on the way he is, but perhaps allowing the uncle he hates to manage his affairs for a further five years will go some way towards punishing him.”

“I do not think that I have a grandson any longer”, the old man said darkly.

I think that is a wise decision”, I said. “I shall see myself out. Good day, sir.”

+~+~+

I spent the rest of Saturday writing out the notes of the case, and ruing that I had ever teased John about the amount of time he spent with a pen in his hand. My arm seriously ached by the end of the day! Sunday passed painfully slowly, but at least there were no developments in the case I had agreed to wait for. But I found myself growing increasingly impatient; I was packed by mid-day, and was restless all the way through to bedtime. Where I slept in my cold, empty bed.

I woke at just before five the following morning, and decided that enough was enough. I had promised to remain in London until Monday, and Monday was now here, albeit just. I washed and shaved quickly, then threw my things together before racing downstairs. To my surprise Mrs. Lindberg, never usually an early riser, was up and standing by the door.

“A cab is waiting outside, sir”, she said. “You should make the first train with ease.”

I do not think I have ever loved her more. I kissed her perfunctorily, then almost managed to fall over the coat-stand in my eagerness to get through the door, choosing to forgive her chuckle at my clumsiness. The ride to King’s Cross was eerily beautiful, through foggy gas-lit streets almost totally devoid of life. Once at the station, I had just enough wits to telegraph ahead that I was coming and would be there just after midday.

The stations seemed to crawl by, and although I had breakfast on the train around Hitchin, I was too excited to eat much. At Peterborough I returned to my first-class compartment – a corridor train, which I disliked - and pulled all the blinds down, wanting privacy until I reached York and my love. I really hoped that John would come to meet me at the station, but I doubted it as I knew his brother's house was less than five minutes walk away from it. Or a very quick cab ride. If he did, then there was always the Station Hotel....

At Doncaster there was the usual delay as we switched locomotives where the Great Northern Railway gave way to the North Eastern. We had just started off again when, to my intense annoyance, someone slid open the door, blatantly ignoring the 'Do Not Disturb' sign on the blinds.....

John was standing there. John, panting furiously, gazing at me with those beautiful forest-green eyes. I stared at him for a moment, then I broke, hurtling towards him and falling against him as he struggled to slide closed the door. I whimpered piteously, but he held me at arms' length for a moment.

“I tipped the conductor”, he said softly. “It is about thirty-five miles to York. I couldn't wait.”

“I need you inside me”, I said desperately, wanting to tear all his clothes off of that gorgeous body but somehow managing (just) to refrain from so doing. “Take me, John. Make me yours again.”

He kissed me long and hard, and I could feel his erection even through his trousers and mine. He removed his and my clothes quickly enough, and eased my naked form down onto the seat, pulling down the arm-rests to give me something to grip onto. To my surprise he slipped a cock-ring onto me, before quickly working me open. I groaned pleasurably as he pushed in, until he was seated inside of me and attacking my prostate like he was determined to destroy it. I wondered briefly if I could do as he had done more than once, and break the confining steel ring, but all too soon he was coming inside of me, panting with the exertion. Then he leaned forward and kissed me.

“John?” I managed, gesturing to the ring. I really needed release too. But to my surprise, he just stood up and sat back on the chair opposite.

“Your turn”, he said, grinning as he raised his legs in the air. 

I managed to stand up on wobbly legs, and made my way across to him. Then I just stared.

“You have the plug in you!” I said accusingly.

“And I have been wearing my own ring ever since York”, he said, his breathing becoming laboured once more. “Hurry the damn up!”

I gently removed the plug and placed it on the seat, before pushing quickly inside of him. It felt so good, especially as I had been deprived of this for ten long, cold days. Of course we did not couple every night, but not being able to do so made this so much more fulfilling. 

“Fill me up with that monster of yours!” John groaned. “Come on, Sherlock!”

I pushed in even harder, driving us both towards orgasm, and in my excitement and passion forgot the restraining ring of steel that was still holding me back. Or at least it had been; I suddenly felt it fall from me, and I exploded inside John with a guttural snarl, painting his insides. He must have set his own ring to loosen under pressure, for my release was too much for him and he came violently, his come splattering the mirror behind him.

“Wow!” I managed weakly.

“Yes”, he said, seemingly just as shattered. “Wow. Um, Sammy is picking us up from the station, so perhaps we had better try tor make ourselves sort of presentable?”

“Says the man who came all this way just because he couldn't wait”, I bitched, hugging him close to me. “These last ten days have been horrible, John. I am never being separated from you for that long ever again.”

He nodded in agreement, and we set to trying to make ourselves look respectable.

+~+~+

Judging from the knowing look that Samuel Watson gave us on the platform at York Station, we might not have been fully one hundred per cent successful in that end.

Nine months to go.

_[End narration by Mr. Sherlock Holmes]_

+~+~+

In our next adventure, the Watson-Holmes family Christmas is a happy one, but our return to London is delayed by a case that would take us instead to the beautiful Galloway region, and a standing stone that seemed to attract murders.


End file.
